


Face of My Enemy

by Shoulder_Devil



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Imposter, Kidnapping, Nikola is a terrifying monster, Whump, mannequins, spoilers for Episode 101
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-20
Updated: 2018-05-20
Packaged: 2019-05-09 06:28:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14710860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shoulder_Devil/pseuds/Shoulder_Devil
Summary: It is the cold he notices first, pulling him toward the surface of consciousness. The Archivist’s eyes flutter but do not open, the cold has weight. It presses down, preventing him from doing so.Nikola makes a mold of Jon's face and sends an impostor to the Archives.





	1. Chapter 1

It is the cold he notices first, pulling him toward the surface of consciousness. The Archivist’s eyes flutter but do not open, the cold has weight. It presses down, preventing him from doing so. Something thick and wet spreads, working its way down his face. More fully aware now, Jon moves to brush it away. His limbs are heavy and sluggish, all he gets for his trouble is the barest twitch of his fingers. 

“Oh, _look_ who’s awake! I’m glad you could join us, Archivist!”

The sound of Nikola’s bright voice sends a stab of adrenaline through his system. Thick fog in his brain clears just enough for Jon to recall where he is. He tries again to move, to struggle, to sit up, to open his eyes, to _do something!_ A low moan builds in the back of his uncooperative throat as the smooth, cold oozes downward.

“Don’t move or you’ll ruin it,” Nikola chides. And we’ll have to start the _whole_ thing over again. We wouldn’t want all this to go to waste!”

From what he can tell in his semi-conscious state, Jon has been strapped to a different chair, this time he is slightly reclined. Gravity aids the viscous fluid as it creeps steadily downward. Cold weight approaches his nose and Jon starts to panic, breathing rapidly. He can’t feel the gag anymore, it must have been removed while he was out. Not that it is necessary in his current state, he can barely move, let alone speak.

Nikola laughs, and Jon hears her circle around behind him. Hands on his face, guiding the thick substance away from his nose, across his cheeks, down his chin, and over his mouth. The weight of whatever it is continues to build as she adds more, smoothing it over his face and neck but leaving his airway blessedly clear.

“Now listen closely. I need you to take a _deep_ breath. Then when I say so, not before, blow it out of your nose. Don’t worry, if you don’t do it right you’ll only suffocate!”

Jon attempts to struggle, emitting weak noises of muffled protest from under the caked-on material. Nikola laughs.

“Shhh. Hold still, Archivist. Are you ready? Good! _Deeeeep_ breath!”

Jon fills his lungs to capacity just before a heavy blob lands in the center of his face with a smack. For a moment, nothing happens.

Another moment passes, still nothing.

Suddenly there is pressure as Nikola works the wet mess on his face. The cold weight presses down, entombing him.

Jon is acutely aware of every cigarette he has smoked in the last few months as his lungs begin to burn. The fog from whatever drug they used, and the lack of oxygen meet up and threaten to drag him into oblivion.

Far above him, Nikola titters in delight.

“Now, Archivist. As hard as you can, breath out. Then inhale but! Do so slowly unless you want it to collapse!”

He forces the air from his nostrils, clearing away the thick goo. For a moment, Jon worries more will flow to replace it and for a moment it starts to. He manages to pull in a thin stream of air and sends it back out again, pushing more of the mess away. It thickens, ceasing its movement and leaving Jon with a steady supply of air.

“ _Very_ good!” She praises. “Don’t move you face until the mold fully sets unless you want to start over. All that’s left now is to plaster over the whole thing!”

He hears her step away to fuss with something off to his left. Noises of splashing and wringing of cloth echo in the chamber. Wrestling his panic under control, Jon focuses and manages to flex his hands and shift his weight slightly. The sound of dripping water joins with approaching footsteps. Nikola begins to hum as she applies the plaster bandages atop the solidified muck. Jon shivers as warm water trickles under the collar of his shirt.

“And now we wait!”

A hollow tap on hardened plaster rouses Jon. He must have passed out again, an unsettling thought he decides to set aside for now. Another tap, this time from a different spot sends vibrations through the shell covering his face. He is having trouble focusing on sounds as at some point the mold was extended to encompass his ears.

Pulling on his bindings in frustration, he is gratified to find he has regained motor function. The weight on his head makes him dizzy. He winces slightly and feels his skin pull away from an impression of his face in the now solidified material.

Jon recoils as hard, plastic fingers dig in under the edge of the mold behind his ear. Something pushes against his face, forcing his head back against the chair pinning him. He grunts out a protest that is summarily ignored. The fingers peel the pliant material, working along the edges, peeling them away from his skin, and eventually freeing his ears. The Archivist is sat up more fully and then tipped slightly forward. The weight of the mold pulls itself free from Jon, releasing him from it at last.

The lights dazzle his eyes as his vision swims with a multitude of wax faces. Nikola holds her prize in front of him.

“It came out _just_ lovely, wouldn’t you agree?”

For a sickening moment the negative mold presents the illusion that Jon’s own face is pushing itself out of the mold toward him. Jon furrows his brow in confusion. “What is-”

The Archivist is cut off by a wad of fabric shoved roughly into his mouth by one of Nikola’s minions. He curses and fights against his assailant but before long the gag is once again secured in place. He scowls at Nikola as she turns to leave.

The click of her shoes retreats off as Nikola’s voice floats back, “just _lovely.”_

 

* * *

 

How long has he been here? Days at least, weeks maybe? He hopes it’s just days. His glasses were never returned after the mold making. Everything more than a few feet away has a slightly blurred, dreamlike quality. Jon remembers meals at irregular intervals. The same meal actually, delivered over and over again by the same creature. Jon long ago lost track of how often they had come. It looks human enough on the outside but behaves anything but. 

Sarah Baldwin comes to taunt him once. Jon is legitimately concerned she is there to torture him. Especially after what Nikola said about her wanting to use nails instead of the medical restraints used to secure him. He tries to focus on what she is saying but they must have slipped something into his food again as everything warps when she moves. The Archivist does his best to remain stoic through the encounter. In the end she doesn’t hurt him. She looks him directly in the eyes, holding the contact until Jon eventually blinks. Then she flicks him, _hard_ , in the center of his forehead before leaving.

Time passes. Alone with his thoughts and the uncanny wax figures. Sometimes he thinks he sees them move but can never be sure. The lights never fade although shadows occasionally shift. He sleeps, they wake him. He sleeps, they let him. He dreams of rescue. He dreams of nightmares. He does not dream. He lives a nightmare. He is _moisturized._

Five meals and two moisturizers after Sarah’s visit, Nikola returns. Something follows, staying just far enough away that Jon can’t make out the details. His mind is unclouded for the first time in a while. The only blur in his vision is from mild nearsightedness.

Rolling his eyes at her approach, Jon mutters through his gag, “what now?”

“Good _morning_ , Archivist! Or is it afternoon? Not that it matters.” She waves the thought away. “I have something to _show_ you! I hope you like it. Actually, it doesn’t matter what you think, I’m going to show you anyway!”

Jon shifts his weight, tugging at his restraints more by habit now than any actual hope of breaking free as Nikola approaches. Her doll remains perfectly still. If he hadn’t seen it come in with her, it would be indistinguishable from the silent waxworks that kept him company.

Nikola circles around behind him, placing her plastic hands in front of his eyes, laughing at his noise of protest. “Come closer and show yourself off to our guest.”

The jerky noise of the dolls movements approaches Jon. Fabric rustles as it leans down to place its hands on the Archivist’s shoulders. Jon goes rigid in its grasp, breathing heavily through his nose. Nikola savors the moment and his discomfort before removing her hands revealing a perfect replica of Jon’s face not three inches from his own.

Jon flinches away with a cry.

This other Jon continues to hold him in place while he pleads from behind the gag for it to _get away_. It leans in closer and _smiles_.

Staring into his own smiling face, Jon steadies his breathing and takes the time to drink in details. It’s not a perfect replica after all, the eyes are all wrong. Of course, the eyes are wrong, the Stranger’s puppets never quite get them right. As if reading his mind, this other Jon reaches in its shirt pocket to pull out Jon’s missing glasses. It’s not much but it is just enough to soften the shock of the doll’s painted eyes.

“I think he likes you!” Nikola informs her abomination.

The doll brings its hands to Jon’s cheeks and holds his head in its hands. Jon’s eyes go wide, and he fights to keep himself together. It leans down and plants a kiss in the center of the Archivist’s forehead. Surprisingly soft lips linger on his brow. The scenario reminds him of how he’s seen Georgie show affection to the Admiral on more than one occasion. The implication that he is somehow this thing’s pet is upsetting to say the least.

Eventually the doll releases him and stood up. It focuses it attention to Nikola. She is practically bouncing with glee at this point.

“Right. Well for your next task, I think “Jon” should pay his friends in the Archives a little visit! It’s been far too long since your face has been seen down there.”

The doll wearing his face nods and turns to leave. Jon fights against his restraints, howling at this creature to leave them alone. It pauses for a moment and looks over its shoulder to Jon and offers a sly wink.

“Have an absolutely wonderful time! Don’t forget to save Elias for me or I shall be _very_ cross indeed. Anyone else is fair game!”

Nikola’s lilting giggles fill the air in sharp contrast to the Archivist’s muffled screams.  

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I found having a face mold done for a head cast to be an incredibly relaxing experience but I totally understand how people find it claustrophobic. It's not something I would be thrilled about waking up to, that's for sure.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martin stares forlornly at his desk. There was a statement waiting for him there when he came in this morning. It could be any other folder from the Archives, but Martin knows it’s a statement. It has been less than a week since he recorded the last one. They are coming more frequently now. He is so tired, and he doesn’t know what to do.
> 
> "Jon" visits the Archives. 
> 
> Martin makes tea and gets a hug
> 
> Tim plays with a puppet

Martin stares forlornly at his desk. There was a statement waiting for him there when he came in this morning. It could be any other folder from the Archives, but Martin _knows_ it’s a statement. It has been less than a week since he recorded the last one. They are coming more frequently now. He is so tired, and he _doesn’t know what to do._

A flash of brown cardigan catches in the edge of Martin’s vision. On autopilot he says, “I’m sorry, the Archives aren’t open to the public.” He pulls his eyes away from where they were locked on the file toward the motion. “I need to ask you to-- Jon!”

As if caught stealing from the biscuit tin, the Archivist hesitates, shooting him a sheepish grin and a half wave before continuing toward his office.

Martin hops from his chair to follow. “Jon, thank god you’re here. Things have been a mess since you last stopped in. Elias has-- There’s uh, there’s something I’ve been meaning to talk to you about.”

Without turning fully to face Martin, Jon coughs and gestures to his throat while shaking his head.

“Oh! Are you ill?” Martin asks, taking a step back. “Would you like some tea? I can make tea.” Jon nods and grunts an affirmative. “Okay, I’ll go put the kettle on.”

A few minutes later Martin is fussing with the cups when Basira walks in. She glances at the two cups and nods to them. “Did Tim finally take you up on the tea you keep offering him?”

“What?” Martin shot her a confused look, “Oh! No, I haven’t seen Tim yet but Jon’s in today. I’m not sure for how long though, he’s sick. Probably the flu, it’s been going around.”

“Well that’s good news. Not the flu bit, but him being back. I’ve got a few questions for him if he’s feeling up to it.”

“It seemed like his voice was pretty messed up from whatever he’s got. The tea might clear it up a bit though. Always helps me when I’m ill.” Martin stirs a generous dollop of honey into Jon’s mug. The Archivist would normally protest such an addition, but Martin thinks he will make an exception just this once.

Martin gathers the mugs and heads for the door. Basira follows, stepping ahead of him to open the door to the Archives. They turn toward Jon’s office and Martin nearly drops the tea in surprise.

The office of the Head Archivist is a mess. Files are scattered across the room, furniture tipped on its side, drawers hanging open. In the center of the chaos is Jonathan Sims wrenching free a drawer from his desk and shaking its contents onto the floor.

“Jon!” Martin gasps. “What are you doing!?”

Jon stops what he is doing and for the first time, turns to face Martin fully. He smiles, a long and deliberate action that is fully out of place on Jon’s face. Martin recognizes the features of the man he knows. The nose, the chin, hair, and general build are all familiar but there is something distinctly wrong about the eyes.

Basira takes a cautious step back. “Martin,” she warns, “that’s not Jon.”

“Bu-but…?”

“Martin, we need to go.”

Martin is frozen to the spot, eyes locked on the man in front of him. His mind races at the possibilities. That isn’t Jon, it can’t be. Can it? No, please no, the thought that this- this _thing_ is genuinely Jon is, well it’s not something Martin wants to consider. It must be an impostor disguised as Jon somehow. He’s not stretched out like Sasha, that’s good. Right?

“ _Martin!”_

Basira’s command him jerks him from his reverie and he turns to look at her. In that moment the Jon-thing rushes toward him in a burst of speed. Martin stumbles back with a cry. The tea drops from his hands, some of it catching him in the chest as it spills to the floor. A burning pain spreads over him where the scalding liquid makes contact. He barely has time to register it as the Jon-thing connects with him. In a split second it has his arm wrenched up behind his back and its forearm across his throat. It spins, using Martin to shield itself from Basira.

“ _Jon, please!”_ he chokes out, unable to come up with something else to call the thing holding him. It twists his arm up higher, eliciting a hiss of pain and forces him a to walk forward.

“What is going on over there?” Melanie calls, rounding the corner. “Some people are trying to work-- Jesus, Jon! I don’t know what Martin did but I’m sure this is uncalled for.”

“Melanie, run!” Martin pleads. The stiff arm digs into Martin’s throat, not enough to cut off his air completely but enough to be more than a bit distressing. He brings his free hand up to pry it away. The thing’s arm doesn’t loosen but it doesn’t get any tighter either as it continues to frog march him away from Jon’s office.

“Okay, seriously,” Melanie turns to Basira, “what the hell is going on?”

“That’s not Jon.”

“What?”

“Whatever that thing is, it’s not Jon. Look at its eyes.”

Stepping to one side to get a better vantage point, Melanie squints for a moment then her eyes go wide in surprise. “Oooohhh, oh no, that’s…that’s not good.”

“Yeah, not good.” Basira calm under pressure, her police training taking over as the thing approaches. She has her hands up in a non-threatening manner and her eyes scan the room assessing the situation. “Whatever you are, I need you to let Martin go.”

“I’m… going to go get help.” Melanie backs away slowly before disappearing behind a bookcase piled with statements.

“Please hurry,” Martin squeaks as he stumbles in the grip of the Jon-thing. He winces as the motion disturbs the place where the tea burned him.

“What do you want?” Basira asks. “We can work something out.”

There was a choked noise from behind Martin as the creature attempted to speak. “Ssssskiiiiin,” it hissed into his ear.

“What? I didn’t catch that.” She circles around the Jon-thing, trying to get in front of it.

“S-skin.” Martin forces out with a shaking voice. “It said ‘skin’.”

“Skin?”

The doll repeats the strangled noise. Martin can feel it nod against the back of his head.

“Oh, god!” Martin sobs, renewing his futile struggles, “it’s going to peel me and wear me! Is that what you did to Jon!? Is that why you have his face!? Oh no, oh god.”

“Martin! Calm down, this isn’t helping.” She continues her motion, forcing it to alter its course to avoid her.

“You heard it! It want’s skin! It’s _wearing_ Jon and now it wants mine!” Martin digs in his heels as the Jon-thing forces him onward. The arm around his neck constricts as the grip on his arm shifts to lift him bodily. He coughs and gurgles, fighting for breath.

“We are going to get you out of this, Martin.” She says with a calm assuredness Martin doesn’t understand.

He has a half second to think, _who’s we?_ Then he catches a flash of red as Tim bursts from behind a shelving unit wielding a fire extinguisher. He catches it solidly upside the head with the red metal tank. Martin’s vision explodes into stars as the Jon-thing’s head cracks against his.

“Sorry, Martin.” Tim says as the world disappears in a white cloud of gas.

Basira takes advantage of the distraction to attack. Martin is jostled as Tim continues to beat the creature with the extinguisher, focusing on the body now. Martin’s vision begins to fade at the edges, his choking gasps are bringing more CO2 than oxygen into his screaming lungs.

At last, he is released, dropping heavily to the floor. Martin curls in on himself with pain from a variety of places. His head is swimming with gas and a possible concussion. Dragging himself away from the sounds of fighting, he clings to consciousness with every ounce of strength he has left. The sound of collapsing shelves is the last thing he hears before the darkness closes around him.

 

* * *

 

Melanie, Tim, and Martin drink their tea in silence. An open first aid kit sits in the center of the table. Martin pulls a blanket tighter around his shoulders and stares off into space. Tim shoots him a concerned glance but is startled back as Melanie plucks a splinter from his arm with a pair of tweezers. 

“It had Jon’s face.” Martin’s soft words break the silence, but he does not turn to face the other two. “It was _wearing_ Jon’s face.”

Tim winces as Melanie pulls another splinter and reaches for the antiseptic. “Noticed that too, did you?”

“This isn’t a joke, Tim!” Martin snaps. “Jon could be dead!”

“Well if it was wearing Jon’s face than I certainly hope so.”

Martin turns to look at him, eyes wide with shock. “Tim!” His gaze shifts to Melanie, silently asking for support.

“I’m with him,” she shrugged, “if something peeled off my face to wear it, I would want to be dead first.”

Martin’s eyes soften and fill with tears. “Oh, I hadn’t thought of that,” he says quietly. He looks down, staring at the bottom his empty mug.

Tim peels the wrapping on another plaster and applies it to the wound left behind from the shard of wood. “You really dropped a bookshelf on me.”

“I was _aiming_ for the creature and I got it too. I wasn’t expecting you to chase after it.”

“I didn’t want it to get away!”

“Well it did.” Melanie lets out a long-suffering sigh. “Basira called in Daisy and they’re searching the tunnels. They’ll find it.”

“It’s not the finding, it’s the killing I’m more concerned with.”

“He came in through the front door!” Martin burst out. “Nobody stopped him. I even talked to him- it- and didn’t notice anything was wrong. Not until we saw it trashing Jon’s office. Even then, I thought he might just be having some kind of episode. You know how he is. If Basira hadn’t been here…” Martin rubs a hand along the bruises forming on his throat. “Well I don’t know what would have happened.”

Martin flinches initially but relaxes as Tim lays a comforting hand on his shoulder. “She was here. And Melanie. And me.”

“You were napping in the back.” Melanie accuses.

“Yeah, well, you woke me up and we managed to fight it off, that’s what matters.”

“I pulled down a shelving unit on you and it disappeared.”

“You both could have been seriously hurt. Melanie, you should have gotten out of there and warned Elias.

“We managed to fight it off, that’s what matters.” Tim repeats firmly.

Martin returns his gaze to the middle distance. “Yeah, I guess.”

“I’m going to make more tea,” Melanie declares pushing herself away from the table, “who wants some?”

Tim looks down at his half full cup. “I could do with a warm up.”

“Martin?”

Martin looks up with hollow eyes. “What?”

“Tea?”

He fusses with his blanket and nods his head.

Tim packs the first aid kit away while Melanie is off making the tea. He looks up just as Basira joins them in the break room. His eyes land on the wad of skin and hair in her hand. “Is that what I think it is?”

“Yep.” She tosses it on the table in front of him. Martin shrieks and nearly topples his chair. “Relax, it’s not actually skin. It’s a silicone mask made to look like skin. Really well made too.”

Tim pokes at it experimentally before picking it up to examine it. The mask stretches easily, distorting the features as Tim pulls on it. “Well that’s just unsettling.” He makes an odd face. “It’s soft.” Tim offers it to Martin who turns him down with a shake of his head.

“Good news: that wasn’t Jon’s actual face the thing was wearing. Bad news: it got away. Daisy wanted to track it, I told her it’s too dangerous down there and it didn’t leave enough of a trail to be worth it.”

“So, what now?” Martin asks, eyes not leaving the mask in Tim’s hands.

“For now, we operate under the assumption that Jon’s alive. It seems to know how to access the tunnels, so we barricade the trapdoor. Daisy is looking at the other entrances to the Institute and working on ways to secure them a bit better.”

“And Elias? Do we tell him?”

“Fuck Elias!” Tim interjects.

“Elias said he is ‘taking steps to resolve the situation’ whatever that means.”

Tim sticks his hand into the Jon mask using it as a puppet. “Fuuuuck Elias.” Jon’s silicone face bunches in his hand like a fleshy muppet.

Martin shudders at the visual and makes a grab for the mask. He snags it off Tim’s hand and tosses it to the far end of the table. “So how does someone get something like…” he nods to the soft folds of synthetic flesh, “that?”

“Either someone with loads of reference pictures sculpted it or someone took a mold of his face.” Basira suggested.

“So, something has him.”

“Yeah, that seems likely.”

“What are we supposed to do about it?” Tim asks.

“I suggested sending Daisy to Elias, but he said not to worry, that he ‘has someone on it’. Vague bastard.”

Everyone is surprised to hear Martin force the words, “ _fuck_ Elias,” through gritted teeth.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New goal: work the phrase 'fleshy muppet' into casual conversation


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “It is very you, but it’s not quite me. And I want to smell like me when I wear you.” She steps away and picks up a different bottle. “This one I think is something we can both enjoy.”

Lights swim and voices float lazily around him. They’ve drugged his food again, not as much as usual though. Is he building a tolerance? A part of Jon wonders if his frequent dosing might be doing permanent damage to his brain. Another part of him decides it doesn’t matter, no one is coming for him and he probably won’t be alive for much longer anyway.

Nikola is going on about something or other. Lotion maybe? Yes, she is making a show of picking which lotion to use on him. All of Jon’s energy is focused on maintaining an angry glare at the blurry, plastic mannequin. He’s not sure how effective it is. Judging from her laughter, not very.

She selects a bottle and brings it over to Jon. “Archivist, what do you think of _this_ one?”

He jerks back as Nikola shoves it at his face. The scent of pine trees undercut with bourbon wafts from the bottle. Jon groans through the gag and fights to keep his eyes open.

“It is very you, but it’s not _quite_ me. And I want to smell like _me_ when I wear you.” She steps away and picks up a different bottle. “ _This_ one I think is something we can _both_ enjoy.”

Another bottle, this one a different woody smell. Cedar perhaps? Notes of lavender thread through the rich fragrance. Jon says nothing but continues to glare.

“Yes, I thought so! Shall we begin?”

Jon tries to struggle but he’s so tired. Maybe he’s not developing a tolerance after all. Though now that he thinks about it, he can’t remember the last time he’s slept. He can’t keep track of anything in this place, time distorts and folds. Nothing here is on a regular schedule, likely by design.

A figure approaches Nikola and she turns to face it. “What is it? Can’t you see I’m _busy?”_  

The jerky doll emits a series of noises that set Jon’s teeth on edge. If that thing ever had a voice box it has long since deteriorated. Nikola nods along with the screeching babble, occasionally urging it to continue.

“You didn’t find it then? _That’s_ disappointing but not unexpected. _Well done_ on making it as far as you did. All the way to the Archivist’s office before being discovered.” She turns to face Jon before continuing. “Elias really doesn’t care about his people, does he? Or is he _just_ that blind?”

The thing speaking to Nikola says something else before a wave of her hand dismisses it. She shrugs and steps back toward the bound Archivist. “Oh well, we’ll just have to make a new mold then! Won’t that be fun?”

Jon’s head spins as Nikola approaches. The scent of cedar and lavender and plastic are overwhelming. He tries to tell her to stay back, to get away from him but only manages a weak groan. His muscles grow slack, Jon loses the fight, and his eyes slip closed. He desperately hopes that when he wakes, if he wakes, it is not to thick, a cold slime creeping down his head to encase his face. Not again, please not again.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lotion shopping with Nikola would be a triiiiiippp


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Archivist sits alone in the darkness. He can’t hear Nikola or her army of dolls, everything is blessedly silent. A different weight pins him to this chair and keeps him from moving. He hadn’t noticed the absence until it returned all at once.

The Archivist sits alone in the darkness. He can’t hear Nikola or her army of dolls, everything is blessedly silent. A different weight pins him to this chair and keeps him from moving. He hadn’t noticed the absence until it returned all at once.

When he stepped in the coffin he had no idea where Helen would take him. For that matter Jon wasn’t sure if she was rescuing him or… not. She seemed almost as surprised as he was when the door opened to his office in the Archives. He stood at the threshold for some time deciding whether to step through. He did though, in the end, not returning here was never really an option. As the Archivist, he belongs in the Archives. Helen did not follow him, and her door was gone before he could turn around to- to what? Say goodbye? Thank her?

Standing in his office, the force of the Beholding, the knowledge of being watched nearly buckled his legs. Now he sits in his chair, unbound for the first time in… who knows really?

The Archivist sits alone in the darkness, acclimating to the presence of his patron, his god. The pressure is intense but without malice and before long it begins to ease.

He should go home, take a shower, get some sleep in a real bed.

Home.

Jon laughs. A dry, bitter laugh. “ _Home,”_ he scoffs.

The word catches him off guard. It has been so long since he has been allowed to speak. He chews on his lips briefly before pressing his tongue along the inside of his upper lip. Emotions swirl just beneath the surface confused, Jon can’t decide if he wants to laugh or to cry. He brings his hands up to his face, running it along his mouth and along his jaw. He is surprised to encounter a beard, fuller than he would have thought. He _remembers_ the electric razor, they used it more than once. Nikola loved to run her plastic fingers along his jaw just after. The memory sends a shudder through him and he pushes it away. That’s over now, he’s free.

Well, free from the circus anyway. The weight of the Ceaseless Watcher has faded to that of a heavy blanket, still noticeable, but oddly comforting. Finding comfort in the Beholding is something Jon would never have thought possible. He clutches the edge of his desk for support as the idea sends him spiraling again.

Laugh? Cry? Both? Neither? Scream? As his breath quickens and starts to catch in his chest they all seem like equally valid choices. Tears start to burn in the Archivist’s eyes, cry it is then. It starts slow but soon tears have turned to sobs have turned to great, shaking gasps.

There is a light knock on his door that silences him.

“Tim?” Martin’s quiet voice asks. “Tim, are you alright? What are you doing in Jon’s office?” He pushes the door open a crack and fumbles for the lights, switching them on.

Jon flinches away from the sudden brightness. Blinking the remaining tears from his eyes, he squints at the man before him. Martin is silhouetted in the doorframe. He carries himself with more steel in his spine than Jon remembers ever seeing in his assistant.

“What are you and what are you doing here?” Martin demands.

Jon sputters, at a complete loss for words. In the light he can see his glasses sitting on his desk. He grabs them and fumbles them onto his face, giving his world a measure of much needed clarity.

“I asked you a question. What are you?”

“I- I’m Jon? I don’t...” he responds lamely, his voice a thick croak from crying.

Martin turns his head toward the main Archives and yells, “Basira! I need your help in Jon’s office. It’s back again.”  

The hatred in Martin’s eyes burns into him. “Martin, I-- What’s going on?” He sniffles and casts around looking for something to blow his nose with. He pulls open a drawer hoping to find his stash of paper takeaway napkins.

“STOP!” Martin’s voice cuts through the stillness of the office and Jon goes freezes. “Put your hands on the desk and don’t move!” He digs into his pocket and pulls out a folding knife, opening it with a click.

“Alright Martin, whatever you say.” Jon swallows and slowly places his hands, palms down, on his desk. “I don’t know why you think you need a knife, but you should put it away before someone gets hurt.”

“Shut up! You’re not him! You’re one of those _things!”_ Martin’s arm wavers as emotion bleeds into his voice. “What do you want!? Why won’t you leave us alone!?”

“Martin, please.” Jon’s face creases in concern and hurt. “I don’t know what you’re on about. Just put the knife down--”

“I said shut up!” he sobs, fully shaking now. “You think you can come in here wearing Jon’s face and, and h-his voice. Just shut up!”

“Martin,” Basira’s voice startles the archival assistant and he whirls to face somewhere Jon can’t see on the other side of the door. “Martin, put the knife down. We’ll deal with this, but you don’t need that. Okay?”

“B-Basira? I, oh god, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean--” Martin lowers the knife and takes a step back. “He- it is in there. This one sounds like him too.”

Jon can hear her take a deep breath before she steps into the doorway, holding a cricket bat in a loose grip.

“Basira, I--” Jon sees her tighten her hand around the bat and closes his mouth.

She looks him over with a critical eye before gesturing with her free hand. “Take off the glasses.”

He does, setting them on the desk where he found them. She meets his eyes and takes a wary step closer.

“Martin,” she says without looking behind her, “have you put the knife away yet?”

“No.”

Jon’s breath hitches. After all he endured at the hands of Nikola Orsinov and her circus. He manages to escape, and he is going to get his skin peeled off anyway. He would laugh if he wasn’t so terrified.

“Well put the damn thing away and get over here.”

“O- okay.” Martin pauses to return the knife to his pocket. “What do you need me to do?”

“Hold this,” she presses the cricket bat to his chest, “stay there and guard the door. Break its knees if it tries to run.”

“Right.” Martin nods and clutches the bat for dear life.

“Okay ‘Jon’, you look like you might be the real deal, but I have to be sure.”

“I understand.” He doesn’t but the Archivist nods and braces himself for what is to come.

The former police approaches him slowly, as if he were a wild animal. “I’m going to touch your face and I need you to keep your hands on the desk, just like that.”

He nods and squeezes his eyes shut. “Do it. Let’s get this over with.” He feels a hand brush lightly over his cheek. It moves toward his ear, folding it back and running along the hairline there.

“Feels like real skin and I’m not seeing any seems.”

“T- t- that’s good right?” Martin asks.

“Or very, very bad.” The hand disappears from Jon’s face. “Okay, one last thing. I want you to open your eyes for this.”

Jon flinches at how close Basira is to him. He sucks in a quick breath to steady himself and swallows.

“I’m going to pull on your arm, hard.”

Everything finally clicks in his addled brain. They think he might be one of Nikola’s skin dolls like Daniel Rawlings or Sarah Baldwin.

“Okay.” He extends his left arm to Basira. She digs her fingers into his flesh and _pulls_. Jon bites back a curse but can’t suppress the grunt of pain.

“Sorry,” she says, letting go, “had to be sure. Welcome back, Jon.”

‘W- wait, wait, wait, _what?_ You’re telling me t-that’s actually Jon?”

“Yes Martin, it’s actually me.” He returns the glasses to his face and rubs his arm where Basira tried to pull a piece off. “I’m--”  
  
Martin slams into Jon, wrapping him in a hug. For a moment Jon feels like he’s being strapped to the chair and nearly throws the other man off him. It passes and before long, Jon is returning the hug. He doesn’t know how long they stay like that but when Martin finally pulls away they are both crying. At some point during the embrace Tim and Melanie must have heard the commotion and joined them in his office.

“I’m so glad you’re back, Jon. You wouldn’t believe how much of a mess things have gotten since you’ve been gone.” Martin still had a hand on Jon’s shoulder, like if he let go, Jon might disappear again. “There was a _thing_ that came in wearing your face. We ran it off, but it left the mask behind. Tim keeps jumping out of cupboards at me wearing the damn thing!”

“I do not!” Tim says looking offended. “I wait in closets and around corners.”

Jon barks out a laugh in spite of himself. “I would consider it a personal favor if that is something I never see.”

“Break every mirror in London, you got it. You’ll never see your face again.”

“So… where were you?” Melanie finally asks the question hanging heavy in the air.

“I… I’m not sure. I- I don’t really want to think about that right now… If that’s okay.”

“We’re just glad to have you back.” Martin squeezes his shoulder and threatens to pull him into another hug. Welcome home, Jon.”

The Archivist feels the presence of Beholding hanging in the room and knows the others must too. They all deal with it in their own way, some better than others. Martin can’t help himself and leans in to embrace Jon.

“Home,” he murmurs under his breath. He may end up moving back in with Georgie or living in a flat of his own but that will just be where he lives.

For better or for worse, the Archives are his home now.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If I have time in the next few days I'd really like to do a deleted scene of Tim running around terrorizing everyone with the Jon-mask.


End file.
